The Spirit of the Express
by LishFish
Summary: instead of The Phantom, what about the Spirit? a western Phantom of the Opera story, including a bit of mystery, a true western gunfight, and... a shotgun wedding?
1. Chapter 1

**my first story!! I hope you all like it, I loved coming up with it! thanks Li-Li for all the inspiration!  
**

**Disclaimer: sadly, I can't claim responsibility for the existence of these slightly silly characters. sob!  
**

Christine Daae stepped down off the stage, glanced around at the town, which wasn't much, and headed for the train, _her_ train. The O.G.D Express. It used to be the Daae Express, but her father said the Spirit told him to change it. Christine shook her head as she handed her small reticule up to the conductor. She really didn't believe in the Spirit, but father seemed convinced of its existence. "Welcome back, Miss. Daae. How is your father?" Jackson Bertrand was a new conductor, Christine had only met him once, the last time she and her father had made a partial run. This time, her father wanted his heiress to take the full run, which lasted a year, on her own, to really learn the route. "He is well, thank you sir." Christine did not like this man, which made no sense. "Janette is going to be your personal maid on the trip, Miss. Janette, please take Miss. Daae to her cabin." Bertrand dismissed them. "please come with me, Miss." Janette was young, Christine guessed her to be close to he own age. After she was left in her cabin, Christine sat on the bed, pulling off her gloves, and untying her boots. She flopped back on the bed, kicking her feet and sending the boots flying onto the lounge across the room. She closed her eyes, just for a second, and slipped into an exhausted sleep.

*******

Eric Destler stood at peephole in the wall of Christine's cabin. She was even more beautiful then she had been three years before. Her hair had come loose from the pins, leaving a cascade of mahogany silk over her shoulders as she lay sleeping. He had been standing near the door of one car, watching the passengers disembark from stage couch through his peephole, seeing which would board the train. He had seen the lovely young girl step off, it had taken him but a moment to see that it was her, _his_ Christine. Her dress was a soft buttery yellow that set off her hair and dark skin beautifully. She walked with a grace she hadn't possessed before, and her face shone with the excitement of the approaching journey. Here, her poise slipped away, and he saw a glimpse of the girl he had fallen in love with the first time her father had brought her on board. He had been twelve, she eleven. Her mother had just died, and he would often hear her crying late at night. On one such night, he slipped down the secret passage, and looked in at her. He sang"Jesus loves me", softly at first, then louder, it was a song his mother sang to him, when he couldn't sleep. He sang until her crying stopped, and she slept. Eric kept this practice, until Christine's sleepless nights were gone. Eric turned, and as he walked down the secret passage, he began planning how he could get her down to the car he lived in.

*******

Christine woke slowly, rolling over and wiping the grit from her eyes. How long had she slept? She checked her time piece, shocked to see that it was almost dinnertime, and the train would be under way soon. She jumped up and hurried to dress, knowing there would be no time for unpacking before dinner. She brushed her long hair, and twisted it back up in her usual style. Seeing a flicker in the mirror, she spun quickly, but there was nothing. For some reason, she thought of the voice she had heard, late at night, when her father first brought her on board, singing anything from "Oh, Susannah!" to "Amazing Grace". She had long since decided it was her imagination, but what if it hadn't been? What if their really was a Spirit, who sang? Christine shook her head. Foolishness, pure imagination. Checking the mirror one last time, she left for dinner. Behind her, Eric stepped through a low door in the paneling, and began putting the plan he concocted to work.

**Please tell me what you think in a review!**


	2. Chapter 2

Eric yawned and looked down in the passage outside Christine's room for the hundredth time. Only this time, she was slipping inside. He jumped up, hit his head, and ran down to the secret door, rubbing the bump forming on his head. He waited, patiently, while she removed her boots, and when she stood before the mirror removing the pins from her hair, he made his move.

Christine was sure she saw something this time, but when she turned there was nothing. She walked over to the wall opposite the mirror, and ran her hands over the smooth cherry paneling. Her fingers moved down a small crack, and instantly, the panel swung inward, causing Christine to fall with it. She picked herself up, and looked down the dark passage, before curiosity overcame her, and she grabbed the candle from the wall sconce. Heading down the tunnel, she flinched slightly as her hand brushed the wall, realizing she had a splinter embedded in her right palm. She walked for what seemed hours before she saw a slight glow from around the corner. She rounded it, and stopped with a barely concealed gasp. In front of her was a thick, blue velvet curtain, hanging slightly crooked, allowing light to pass around one side. Moving quietly, Christine walked up, and peered around the curtain. Her breath caught in her throat, as she took in the splendor of the train car in front of her. It was almost like hers, in shape and woodwork, but the door where you would normally enter was not there. In it's place hung another blue velvet curtain, gathered in at the bottom by a wide black ribbon. The wall across from where she stood was covered in a beautiful, finely made Indian blanket, woven in blue, black and red. The furniture was simple, the chairs and settee were upholstered in black, with fine red roses embroidered on them. A small stove stood in the corner to her left, and a table and chair were directly on her left. Christine slipped through the curtain, and looked to the right, expecting to see a bed, but instead there was a piano, a guitar, and a fiddle, all of the finest quality, and well used. Scattered on every available surface surrounding the instruments were sheets of music written in a bold, strong hand. Christine's heart jumped when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned, and stepped back in shock.

Eric stood, his face a picture of surprise and anger, while inside he was laughing. Christine stood across the room, staring at him like she had never seen another human in her life. "Enjoying yourself?" he made his voice sound angry, but controlled. "I...I...didn't know....that anyone was here. I'm s-sorry, sir." Eric turned, and placed the sheaf of papers in his hand on the side table, as much to hide his grin as for a place to put them. He moved over to the settee, "Well, you might as well have a seat." Christine walked slowly over and sat in the chair across form where Eric sat. "Do you write music?" she clapped a hand over her mouth, and this time Eric did laugh. "Yes, I do. So you like music?" "Yes." Eric sat and looked through the papers beside him. "What is your name?" she asked suddenly. "Eric. And yours is Christine."

"How did you know that?"

"I make it my business to know everything that goes on here."

Christine sat silent for a moment, before curiosity got the best of her. "What happened to you face?"

Eric stopped. This was not what he had expected her to ask. "I was burned in a fire when I was very young." An easy answer, he knew, but the only one he was going to give. "Do you live here?" That was a better question. "Yes, I was brought here by one of the workers. She has been gone for about five years now." Christine glanced around the room. "Why did you block off the door?"

"So none of the maids could come inside. I like having my own space."

"Do you rent this car all year round?"

"Rent? This is my car."

Christine's head came up, and she sat staring at him for a second. "My father owns this train. All of it belongs to him."

Eric chuckled. "But, not this car, or the next one. They are mine."

"My father never mentioned you. He would have told me if his engine was pulling someone else's cars." Christine looked genuinely confused. "Don't tell my you've never heard of the Spirit." Her eyes snapped. "Of course I have. It is a wonderful way to attract passengers, but no one really believes it."

"Your father does."

"How do you know what my father believes?"

"He sends the Spirit one hundred dollars a month."

"Oh, really? And how would you know that?"

"The Spirit and I are very close."

"Oh? Perhaps you could tell me, then, why no one has ever seen this mysterious being?"

"They have seen him, they just don't know it." Christine stood, and walked to the door. "I suppose next you'll be telling me that I have seen him." she walked through the curtain, but not before she heard Eric say, "You have." She shook her head as she turned down the tunnel. Suddenly a wall seemed to appear in front of her, and she held up her hand to keep from running into it. "You might need some light." Eric took hold of her arm and led her back into his car. "You have a splinter. Sit right there, I'll take care of it."

Christine sat, wishing she could get to her room without a light. Who was he to say she had met someone that she had no recollection of? She watched him cross the room, pull back the blanket, and go through the door behind. So thats how he got in without her seeing him. Christine walked over to the stack of papers he had left in the side table and began looking through them. She found a note, addressed to her father. It wasn't folded, so she easily saw the signature Eric had written at the bottom. The Spirit. Nothing fancy, but it told Christine everything. She quickly shoved it back in the stack, and hurried back to her seat. Thats why he told her she had met the Spirit! It all made sense now. The sound of footsteps brought her out of her thoughts. Eric knelt in front of her, and took her and in his. She winced as the needle bit into her palm. "Are you the Spirit?" of course, she knew the answer, but it gave her something to do so she wouldn't concentrate on how much it hurt. "Yes." He gave no sign that he was surprised by her question, and that confused Christine. "Were you expecting me to ask that?" She saw him grin slightly. "No, not exactly. But, you are very curious, so I figured you would, sooner or later." Christine winced again as the splinter came out. "There you go. Now, come on, I'll take you back." He helped her up, and re lit her candle from the one in his wall sconce. As she followed Eric back through the tunnel, she wondered about him. How old was he? How had his face been burned? Was it really bad enough that he had to were that leather mask? He left her in her room and closed the panel as he left. Christine continued to ask herself those questions and others as she lay in bed that night.


	3. Chapter 3

Eric yawned and looked down in the passage outside Christine's room for the hundredth time. Only this time, she was slipping inside. He jumped up, hit his head, and ran down to the secret door, rubbing the sbump forming on his head. He waited, patiently, while she removed her boots, and when she stood before the mirror removing the pins from her hair, he made his move.

Christine was sure she saw something this time, but when she turned there was nothing. She walked over to the wall opposite the mirror, and ran her hands over the smooth cherry paneling. Her fingers moved down a small crack, and instantly, the panel swung inward, causing Christine to fall with it. She picked herself up, and looked down the dark passage, before curiosity overcame her, and she grabbed the candle from the wall sconce. Heading down the tunnel, she flinched slightly as her hand brushed the wall, realizing she had a splinter embedded in her right palm. She walked for what seemed hours before she saw a slight glow from around the corner. She rounded it, and stopped with a barely concealed gasp. In front of her was a thick, blue velvet curtain, hanging slightly crooked, allowing light to pass around one side. Moving quietly, Christine walked up, and peered around the curtain. Her breath caught in her throat, as she took in the splendor of the train car in front of her. It was almost like hers, in shape and woodwork, but the door where you would normally enter was not there. In it's place hung another blue velvet curtain, gathered in at the bottom by a wide black ribbon. The wall across from where she stood was covered in a beautiful, finely made Indian blanket, woven in blue, black and red. The furniture was simple, the chairs and settee were upholstered in black, with fine red roses embroidered on them. A small stove stood in the corner to her left, and a table and chair were directly on her left. Christine slipped through the curtain, and looked to the right, expecting to see a bed, but instead there was a piano, a guitar, and a fiddle, all of the finest quality, and well used. Scattered on every available surface surrounding the instruments were sheets of music written in a bold, strong hand. Christine's heart jumped when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned, and stepped back in shock.

Eric stood, his face a picture of surprise and anger, while inside he was laughing. Christine stood across the room, staring at him like she had never seen another human in her life. "Enjoying yourself?" he made his voice sound angry, but controlled. "I...I...didn't know....that anyone was here. I'm s-sorry, sir." Eric turned, and placed the sheaf of papers in his hand on the side table, as much to hide his grin as for a place to put them. He moved over to the settee, "Well, you might as well have a seat." Christine walked slowly over and sat in the chair across form where Eric sat. "Do you write music?" she clapped a hand over her mouth, and this time Eric did laugh. "Yes, I do. So you like music?" "Yes." Eric sat and looked through the papers beside him. "What is your name?" she asked suddenly. "Eric. And yours is Christine."

"How did you know that?"

"I make it my business to know everything that goes on here."

Christine sat silent for a moment, before curiosity got the best of her. "What happened to you face?"

Eric stopped. This was not what he had expected her to ask. "I was burned in a fire when I was very young." An easy answer, he knew, but the only one he was going to give. "Do you live here?" That was a better question. "Yes, I was brought here by one of the workers. She has been gone for about five years now." Christine glanced around the room. "Why did you block off the door?"

"So none of the maids could come inside. I like having my own space."

"Do you rent this car all year round?"

"Rent? This is my car."

Christine's head came up, and she sat staring at him for a second. "My father owns this train. All of it belongs to him."

Eric chuckled. "But, not this car, or the next one. They are mine."

"My father never mentioned you. He would have told me if his engine was pulling someone else's cars." Christine looked genuinely confused. "Don't tell my you've never heard of the Spirit." Her eyes snapped. "Of course I have. It is a wonderful way to attract passengers, but no one really believes it."

"Your father does."

"How do you know what my father believes?"

"He sends the Spirit one hundred dollars a month."

"Oh, really? And how would you know that?"

"The Spirit and I are very close."

"Oh? Perhaps you could tell me, then, why no one has ever seen this mysterious being?"

"They have seen him, they just don't know it." Christine stood, and walked to the door. "I suppose next you'll be telling me that I have seen him." she walked through the curtain, but not before she heard Eric say, "You have." She shook her head as she turned down the tunnel. Suddenly a wall seemed to appear in front of her, and she held up her hand to keep from running into it. "You might need some light." Eric took hold of her arm and led her back into his car. "You have a splinter. Sit right there, I'll take care of it."

Christine sat, wishing she could get to her room without a light. Who was he to say she had met someone that she had no recollection of? She watched him cross the room, pull back the blanket, and go through the door behind. So thats how he got in without her seeing him. Christine walked over to the stack of papers he had left in the side table and began looking through them. She found a note, addressed to her father. It wasn't folded, so she easily saw the signature Eric had written at the bottom. The Spirit. Nothing fancy, but it told Christine everything. She quickly shoved it back in the stack, and hurried back to her seat. Thats why he told her she had met the Spirit! It all made sense now. The sound of footsteps brought her out of her thoughts. Eric knelt in front of her, and took her and in his. She winced as the needle bit into her palm. "Are you the Spirit?" of course, she knew the answer, but it gave her something to do so she wouldn't concentrate on how much it hurt. "Yes." He gave no sign that he was surprised by her question, and that confused Christine. "Were you expecting me to ask that?" She saw him grin slightly. "No, not exactly. But, you are very curious, so I figured you would, sooner or later." Christine winced again as the splinter came out. "There you go. Now, come on, I'll take you back." He helped her up, and re lit her candle from the one in his wall sconce. As she followed Eric back through the tunnel, she wondered about him. How old was he? How had his face been burned? Was it really bad enough that he had to were that leather mask? He left her in her room and closed the panel as he left. Christine continued to ask herself those questions and others as she lay in bed that night.

Over the next few days, Eric and Christine became friends, spending time in her cabin or his. He would leave her a note, or a rose with a black ribbon, which he said was his signature. One day, when Christine was out speaking with one of the station master at a stop, Jack Bertrand came to deliver her mail, and found Eric's recent letter. _Spirit, eh? That's my kinda job. _Jack read the note, then wandered back to his cabin, wondering how he could get the Spirit. Later that night, Eric watched Jack slip out of the train, and into town.

Christine returned to her room that night, after dinner in town with the station master and his family. As she unlocked the door, she heard a voice from inside. When she opened it, she stopped short. There, in a basket on her bed, lay a baby. She hurried over and began looking for a note, or a clue of some kind, to tell her why their was a baby in her room. Finding nothing, she pulled the small cord on the curtain beside her bed. In moments, Eric came through the panel door. "What...Christine, why do you have a baby?" He walked slowly over, looking down at the small bundle in Christine's arms. "It was here when I came. There isn't a note, or anything." Eric sat on the bed beside her. "Well, maybe they just needed some one to watch him while they were gone."

"Then why did they not leave a note? And, it is a girl." Eric's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Hmmm, that puzzles me. Why would someone-" the door opened, and in walked Janette. "Oh, Miss. Christine! I didn't – that is, I thought... Oh dear." She turned and hurried back out. Eric looked at Christine, and Christine looked at Eric. They burst out laughing. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps, and loud voices coming down the hall stopped their laughter. They sat, staring at the door when it burst open, admitting Jack, Janette, and a few of the passengers. "There! What does _that_ tell you?" Jack pointed angrily at Eric and Christine.

He was crazy. Eric stared in disbelief as he listened to what the conductor was telling the people. He was claiming that the baby was Eric and Christine's! "That man took advantage of her! How else would such a lovely young lady have a baby?" Christine's eyes widened when she looked at him. Eric looked back at what Jack was saying. "We should hang him!" The people seemed confused, until a tall, older gentleman stepped forward. "Why would he be here, holding the baby, if he had done such a thing? Jack, that makes no sense." Jacks face turned red when the man said that. "Young man, I do not believe you did what Jack says, but I do believe that in order to preserve you and Christine's good names, you must be married. Eric tensed at that, He glanced at Christine, whose face was rather white. "Here, stand up in front of me, I am a minester. Janette, take the babe." Eric looked around, trying to find an escape. There were too many people! "Young man, I need you to tell me your name." Eric reaplyed in a trance. The entire ceremony only took a few moments, but to Eric, it seemed like forever. Jack stood to the side, an angry scowl on his face. He turned to the preacher as soon as it was over. "How is marrying him going to save her good name?" Th man ignored Jack, and herded the crowd away.


	4. Chapter 4

Things soon settled into a routine. Christine would wake at about seven, feed Meg, and then Eric would escort them to the dining room for breakfast. Christine would spend the day reading, and speaking with the station master at whatever town they stopped in. Eric spent his prowling the train, and writing music. Late one night, Christine sat reading a book, while Eric scanned his latest piece, growling and scribbling adjustments every so often. He was startled out of concentration by Christine's voice. "Eric, will you tell me what happened?" He sat for a moment, trying to switch his train of thought. "A group of angry Soixe warriors came to our house, and lit fire to the roof. My mother...was killed, but she saved me, by using her body as a shield. The right side of my face was the only part not covered." He sighed, remembering. "I ran, thinking the Indians were still there, waiting for me. I couldn't see well, and when I came to this train, I climbed on. Mrs. Giry, a older women who worked here at the time, took me in, and put me in this car. After a while, I began exploring on my own. I helped out around the train, and, well, since I lived in these cars, I began to write notes to your father. You know the rest." Eric turned back to the papers, staring blankly at the notes on the scale, not really seeing them. He was remembering that night so long ago, seeing again the fire, hearing the wild yells from the Indians. He shivered, thinking of the body of his mother sprawled over him on the dirt floor.

Christine moved to his side, placing her hand on his arm. "Eric, do you know where Mrs. Giry is now?" Eric shook his head still staring at the papers crumpled in his fist. Christine gently took them from him, laying them on the side table. Eric just sat, blank. She wanted to bring him back, but how? Meg fussed, and as she went to get her, Christine had an idea. Sitting back on the sofa, she sat Meg on her hands and knees. "Eric, look what Meg learned today!" Eric looked automatically. Meg crewled forward, just a few inches, but it was enough. Eric knelt in front of her, lifting her and placing a kiss on her head. "What a big girl you are, Meg!" sitting on the sofa beside Christine, they praised and fussed over the girl while Christine fed her a bottle.

"No. I don't want to." Eric stood, arms crossed, in their main car. "Eric, what will I tell people if you don't come? You have been coming for the last week." Christine sighed, jiggling a fussy Meg. "I don't care. Tell them I came down with a cold or something." Eric turned to the piano and began rifling through papers. "Just tell me why you won't come." Christine's voice was sharp and impatient. "Everybody stares. I am just a freak in a mask to them, do you think I _want_ to be a freak?"

"Eric, no one thinks that!"

"Then why do they stare? Tell me that, Christine!"

Christine was silent, considering. "Not so quick with an answer, are you."

"Because your the nicest looking man out there!" Christen slapped a hand over her mouth, when he spun, staring at her. "That makes sense. The guy with only half a face looks nicest? Right."

"Eric Destler, you shut your mouth! I mean that, I didn't say that for the fun of it."

"You- you really mean that." Eric stared, mouth hanging open. Christine chuckled, "Your gonna catch a fly, Eric." He grinned. "I'll go. I won't like it, though." Christine snorted. "Real grown up, Eric."


	5. Chapter 5

Eric walked into the main car, and stood for a moment, smiling. Christine lay on the couch, sound asleep, while Meg played on the floor. He walked quietly over, picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Sitting beside her in the bed, he traced on finger down her nose, lifting a strand of hair off her face as he did so. Eric sighed and stood to get Meg, who was fussing in the other room. "Meg, do know what we need to do? We need to write a song." Eric sat at the piano with Meg on his lap, and began to play.

Christine woke to the sound of Eric playing and singing. After a moment, she decided that she really had never heard that song before. It was about her! Slipping out of the bed, she walked to the door and peeked out. Meg sat on Eric's lap, looking up at him in fascination as his voice rang out in the silence.

"_An angel, her eyes like the stars,_

_curls of softest brown_

_and that soft, sweet smile she always wears._

_I love Christine with all my heart,_

_only she will ever be..."_

Christine's foot bumped the door frame, causing Eric's head to snap toward her."Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you." she lowered her head, hoping he hadn't seen her unbecomingly red face. She heard a soft chuckle. "I don't mind at all." Eric walked over to stand before her, tilting her face up with a finger beneath her chin. "Your face is red." _His_ face turned red at that, making Christine giggle. "So is yours!" he brushed a curl behind her ear. "Did you like it?" he asked softly. "Yes. It was lovely." Eric smiled, right up to his soft, dark eyes. As he lowered his mouth to hers, he whispered, "Good." Meg shrieked loudly, and Christine jerked back. "Ow!" Meg had tangled her fingers in both heads of hair, firmly hanging on. "Well, guess we're stuck. What do you suggest, My Lady?" Christine grinned mischievously. "Oh, let's start by getting the strawberry jelly out of your hair." Eric's eyes widened, as he reached up to feel his head. Sure enough, there were handfuls of sticky, gooey jelly in his hair. Christine laughed as she took Meg from him and sent him into the bedroom to wash his hair.

Eric unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it on the floor beside the table that held the basin. He poured a handful of warm water over his head, wondering where Meg had found jelly. Grabbing the soap bar, he scrubbed his hair roughly, failing to remove much of the stuff. The door behind him opened, and Christine took the bar of soap. "Here, let me do that." Eric gladly let her take over, trying not to think about how close she was standing. "Where do you suppose she found jelly?" Eric asked, closing his eyes as her fingers worked through his thick, dark hair. "She probably got it when she stuck her hand in my sandwich." Christine laughed, I guess she got you really good. I hope she didn't have any in her other hand." Eric tried to turn and look, but she turned his head back. "I'm not done yet, be patient." pushing him forward, over the basin, she scooped hand fulls of water over his head, running her fingers through his hair to rinse the soap out. Eric gripped the edge of the table, wondering if she had any idea what that did to him.

Christine poured one last handful of water over Eric's head, running her fingers lightly through his hair, wondering why men always get the nice hair. "Umm, Christine? Are you done?" Christine snapped out of her thoughts and pulled her hand out of his hair, grabbing a towel as she did so. "Can I sit up yet?" Eric's voice was strangely breathless, and his hand was gripping the edge of the table for dear life. "Are you alright?" Christine put her hand on his forehead as he looked up at her. "Just dizzy. That happens when you hold your head like that for a very long a time." "It wasn't that long. Are you sure your alright?" Eric laughed. "I am fine, now let me see if she got you, too." Eric stood and tilted her head down so he could see the top. Squinting, he lifted a few strands, stuck firmly together by the partily dry jelly "Hmmm, it would apear, madam, that our daughter successfully deposited a handful of the stuff in your hair too!" Christine burst into giggles, causing Meg, who was on a blanket on the floor, to giggle, too. Eric shook his head at the two as he steered Christine in front of the basin, tilting her head down to wet her long hair. As he scrubbed, he worked his fingers to the base of the strands, letting the strands slide through. Christine felt a tingle from her scalp down her neck as he worked, she closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the table.

Eric leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You have nice hair, Chris." He grinned when he felt her shiver. Grabbing the towel, he tipped her head back, carefully drying her long, chestnut hair. Her eyes were shut, and she was smiling. He just couldn't resist leaning down and kissing her. "All done, Angel." Christine went and picked up Meg, putting the now sleeping baby in her basket. Laying in bed that night, beside the sleeping Christine, he wondered if she felt for him even a faction of what he felt for her.


End file.
